The Chevalier's Path
by Grey Nayr
Summary: Before joining the ranks of the Inquisition, Michel de Chevin, the former champion of Empress Celene embarked on a yearlong quest in search of the powerful demon Imshael. A taxing journey that took him across southern Thedas chasing ghost stories rumors. Driven to his limits and faith tested, Michel begins to realize what being a Chevalier truly means.


01

The Lost Champion

Six months ago this would not be the life that _Ser Michel de Chevin _envisioned for himself. He once stood among the Chevaliers; the most prestigious knights of the Orlesian Empire. Unmatched warriors hailed for their mighty strength and code of honor. Even among them Michel stood out. Skill and a cunning tactical mind which earned his place as the champion of _Empress Celene Valmont I _herself. Her enemies were his enemies. Her causes were his causes. When she was in danger, he was her shield. And when she was offended, he was her sword.

And now he was nothing. Because of his lie and Briala, the elf clever enough to exploit it for her own ends.

Only members of the nobility were allowed to enroll in the _Academie des Chevaliers_ and wear the feather, a symbol of status. He was a peasant. A lowborn bastard of an elven mother no less, whose father's identity a mystery even to him. But through the generosity of _Comte Brevin_, a dear friend in the nobility, records were forged and he was passed as a distant cousin of the Chevin family. The last scion from a dead branch of their family tree. Such a cover that no one could question his legitimacy without extensive research that few would care to undertake.

It all started with a rebellion in the city of _Halamshiral_. An elf murdered by a nobleman sparked his friends and kin to rise up in an attempt to claim freedom and rights their kind had not known since the fall of their lost empire, Elvenhan.

_Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons _chose to use the unrest in Halamshiral to perform a masterstroke against Celene and begin his coup. Setting her, Michel, Briala, and a Dalish elf named Felassan on a long quest culminating in an honor duel between himself and Celene, with Ser Michel fighting in her stead.

Michel won, barely. Skill and luck were on his side, allowing him to wrench victory from the jaws of defeat. But just before the final blow could be dealt, Briala came to collect on the debt that Michel owed her for keeping his secret.

"Yield," she said.

And yield he did. Yet not before exposing his shame to Celene, so that she might understand. And if the Maker willed it, forgive him too.

What he received was in fact the opposite. Michel was declared a traitor. And to be perfectly honest, he did not entirely disagree with the label. It was her right after he had forsaken the wishes of the Empress he'd sworn his whole life to for the sake of upholding his personal honor. Showing his face in spotting distance of _Val Royeaux _would result in his arrest and immediate execution.

Michel considered himself fortunate in spite of this, however. Arguably, Celene could have chosen to hunt him down and make an example to those entertaining the notion of opposing her. Part of him hoped this meant that in some recess of her heart she still cared for him. The realistic portion of his mind knew this was only so because pursuing him would take vital resources away from the war with Gaspard, which had only escalated in the weeks following their duel.

If the war ended in Celene's victory over Gaspard, there was a fair chance that Michel might need to leave Orlais to avoid being hunted. Travel to Nevarra or Ferelden where he could not be extradited because Celene lacked friendly connections.

The current situation at least allowed him some time to focus on a personal quest, righting one of the wrongs he committed during their odyssey. To help Celene return to Val Royeaux, Michel unwittingly unleashed a demon calling itself _Imshael_ upon the world. A powerful and deceptive creature in the form of a man, that offers a false choice to others. Creatures such as this were not meant to tread on mortal soil, and Michel blamed himself for all who would fall victim to the monster.

For many months, Michel trekked across southern Thedas. From the sweltering deserts of the Western Approach to the haunted depths of the Brecilian Forest. Through icy valleys of the Frostback Mountains and the lush wilderness of the Dales. Chasing strange rumors and ghost stories.

Unlike a doe or man, demons left no obvious trails to follow. Only the collateral damage of anarchy they so loved. Michel's resolve was beginning to waver. His hope of ever finding Imshael ebbed away. Now the thought of giving up entertains in the back of his mind.

In what world could an ordinary man such as he stand against a demon so powerful? He was no mage, and even though he had studied the fighting techniques of the Templars to better fight against mages, he lacked their lyrium-drawn power to dispel the Fade. And in the midst of their own war against the mages the Templars would not care to help him, only use Imshael as propaganda.

It was difficult to keep track of his current location. Michel had been walking three day southbound from Lydes, at the fringe of The Dales. But his roaring hungry stomach and the fatigue from lack of sleep hindered him.

His destination was a small hamlet known as Aliju. Lydes had received little news from the village in the last five months, not long after Imshael was unleashed. It was far fetched and could be attributed to a variety of reasons, but given the nature of his enemy any lead was worth investigating.

Hopefully, this would be the end of his quest.

Michel's legs were tired and achy. The endless beaten road carried a hypnotic effect that threatened to dull the weary chevalier's senses. He yawned and considered catching a rabbit for food and making camp.

He had to be getting close to the village and frankly he hated camping in the woods. A prejudice strengthened from an encounter by living trees called Sylvans. If Imshael were not there, a tavern and warm bed would be awaiting him. One of the silvers in his pocket would buy a room and real meal. But if Imshael were there, Michel would not be facing him at his best.

That settled it. Michel diverted from the road and ventured into the green wilds. Rays of sunlight shined through the shade of leaves as Michel searched for a good spot to set up a snare, marking the trees along the way to find his way back. Tall grass was a good spot for rabbits to feed, and they were more likely to in the dim light of the early morning and evening, which was drawing near.

When the traps were set, he followed his map of the area to a stream to fetch water. Not the first time he had camped out between towns and probably not the last. His survival training from the Academie was proving very useful. Besides that, he knew a few tricks from his childhood in Montfort's alienage. Things that cultured nobles would be unable to bring themselves to do.

The stream babbled as water rushed through rocks. It was little more than a foot deep. Michel plunged an empty water skin into the crystal clear liquid and let it fill, watching the air inside slowly bubble out. He filled two more and then headed back to check his snares.

Two of the three were empty, but the last contained a rather large rabbit which made the chevalier wet at the mouth. It struggled against its binds and twitched in fright. Rabbits were easily scared and Michel was compassionate enough to not let it suffer. He held it down and raised a knife aloft. "I'm sorry," he whispered softly to the beast, "and thank you." The kill blow was clean and painless.

He removed the tailbone and cut rings around each leg and lines up to the body, connecting at the stomach. Pulling back the hide, it slipped off. He pulled out the organs and examined them. The liver and kidneys appeared to be healthy and the stomach was full of wild greens that he could boil with the meat for a wild stew.

Using one of the skins of water, he cleaned and chopped the meat into a pot from his pack, adding the edible organs and greens with herbs he'd found on the way. Then he finally built the fire to cook with. The stew was good as he could make it. Michel boiled the rest of his water to drink.

Using his back for a pillow, Michel laid back after he finished his meal and drifted off into much needed slumber.

Dreams were a strange thing for Michel. He was always a little more lucid when his mind drifted into the Fade. Not enough to shape the projections of his imagination, or to call the Fade into the real world like a mage, but enough that he was aware of his surroundings. If a robber or a wild animal believed they had the drop on him, they would be wrong.

Morning came sooner than he wished, but Michel was not a lazy man. He was awake and packed up before the birds began chirping. Breakfast consisted of whatever wild berries and vegetables he could find and he was back on the road toward Aliju.

It was six hours before he reached the town, leaving him unable to deny satisfaction in his decision to make camp. The tavern would have been closed by the time of his arrival, too late to catch dinner.

Aliju consisted of twenty-six buildings, Michel estimated by counting the rooftops he could see. Townsfolk seemed to be normal, to his great relief.

He found the tavern sitting humbly in the town square. Inside, it was just as ordinary. Bottles sat on shelves behind a wood counter with a fat, balding man in an apron manning it. He was probably the owner. The waitress was a nubile young woman with freckles and a long braid, hair brown like her eyes. She danced with efficiency around Michel as he moved to the counter.

"Welcome to my humble establishment. What'll ya have?" the bartender asked with a wide smile. His voice was deep and gravely and the smell of tobacco smoke was faint on his breath.

Michel pulled out a few silver coins from his purse and dropped them on the table. "A meal and room for the night," he replied.

Silver was enough to pay for that and then some. Given how Michel looked - dirty and unshaven, clad in worn veridium armor and a threadbare cloak - he would be unsurprised if the man assumed his money was stolen. But the bartender only asked, "What's your poison?"

"Wine, if you should have it."

The man went into the back and returned with a bottle of _Baiser de la Maker_ vintage 8:99 Exalted, the finest red wine in stock. Nothing compared to the wine available in Val Royeaux, bottles dating back close to three centuries, which only nobles could afford to drink.

The cork popped as the bottle opened and the bartender pulled out a wineglass from under the counter, filling it to the top and handing it to Michel. "The amount you paid, you can keep the bottle."

"Sincerest gratitude, my good man," Michel said with a long drink. The alcohol cut through the tension of his body like a silverite blade and he swallowed with a refreshed sigh. It was truly the kiss of the Maker. He poured another glass and only sipped on it while he waited for the bartender to return with a plate of food that carried the distinct smell of roast lamb and baked potatoes. The lamb was herb seasoned and pink, charred on the outside.

"Make way! I am coming through!" a loud haughty voice demanded. Michel looked over his shoulder and saw a face he recognized.

"I am _Ser Gauthier de Ancel_!" the man announced in a throaty bellow. "I will not suffer being regarded as some peasant customer."

Gauthier was a chevalier, formerly. His name had been stripped from the rolls along with his family's title following a scandal that rocked Val Royeaux years back: embezzlement from the crown. The perpetrator, Gauthier's father, was hung on the gallows. The rest of the Ancel family punished as an example to anyone else who would be foolhardy enough to repeat the crime.

None of the people in a small boondock town like this would care to know of those who lost in the Game, of course. But everyone in Orlais knew the rights that chevaliers were entitled to, and would be impressed by the heraldry of his family and the feather on his cap. The common classes were obligated to obey their wishes without hesitation.

Michel had to hold himself back from outing the man right then and there. Such action was an insult to the Chevaliers as a whole. But causing a ruckus in the middle of a tavern would do no one any good. "Bring me wine!" Gauthier barked at the waitress. "The best you've got."

The waitress went into the back and returned with a bottle different than the one Michel was given by the owner. He recognized it as _Montfort Red_, vintage 9:10 Dragon. It had a very sour taste if it wasn't aged more than fifty years. And this bottle was still two decades away from being good.

"Pardon," Michel whispered to the owner, "can you tell me what that man is doing here?"

He whispered back, "The chevalier? He came into town 'bout a week ago. 'Resting on his travels,' he says. Been throwin' around his title like he's flamin' Andraste Herself. 'Confiscated' a home from a nice family and shows up here every night to drink himself stupid."

"And how would you react if I informed you that Ser Ancel is a chevalier no longer?" Michel asked.

"I'd say without proof, yer askin' to be killed."

"Duly noted," Michel answered with another, lighter drink and refused to pry his eyes away from the fake.

"Ah, _Gervaise_," Gauthier addressed the waitress as she offered him his glass and bottle. "You are looking lovely this evening."

"Why thank you, my lord," she replied with a fake smile. Michel noticed her proper grammar. He saw Gervaise tense and scowl as Gauthier's hand touched her back. Her nostrils flared and brows slanted as her eyes became filled with anger, only holding back from stabbing him with the steel utensils that passed for silverware because of Gauthier's status. He creeped his hand down slowly as he took a long drink, and stopped shy of her backside as he spat the sour wine and swore angrily. "What is this shit?" he snarled. "This is not the same wine I had before!"

"My humblest apologies," Gervaise tried halfheartedly to calm the man, "but we're out of the Baiser."

Gauthier burst to his feet and threw the glass at her as he ranted. "Out!? Who told you that you could sell that wine to anyone else but me?"

"It would be the only bottle of that wine we've actually sold, you drunk deadbeat," she spat in anger, sending a wave of shock through the room. "You never pay for anything."

"How dare you speak to me in such a way? Stupid bitch!"

"That is quite enough!" Michel shouted loudly enough to draw everyone's attention. He could sit back and watch this reprobate make a mockery of the Chevaliers no longer.

"And who are you supposed to be?" Gauthier demanded before noticing the bottle of Baiser on the counter. "Oh, you're the lout who stole my wine!"

"I have stolen nothing," Michel protested. "The guilt of that crime falls only on you; a lecherous cur who boasts a title he no longer holds to reap rewards which are not entitled to him."

A look that mixed fear and anger passed Gauthier's face. "How dare you!? You insult my honor; I would slay you for such an insolent act!"

"And I would be most honored to shoulder the burden of putting you down," Michel said. "You are a joke, an insult the feather and everything it stands for."

Gauthier's hand fell to his hilt and he drew his sword in an attempt to kill Michel in a single strike. But the technique was rusty and Michel responded by thrusting up his own sword, still in its scabbard, to catch the blow. His opposite hand gripped the weapon and drew from the sheath with a metallic hiss to stab at his opponent directly.

Gauthier barely avoided being skewered by Michel's attack and took a defensive stance, slowly backing out of the tavern and into the open town square. Michel had hoped for this, actually. A duel between two chevaliers could be quite bloody, and the risk of casualties among the people inside was high in such close quarters.

"Is that the best a former chevalier can manage?" Michel taunted. "Groping young ladies and moving with the finesse of a Shriek with two broken legs."

Gauthier grated his teeth and dove in, swinging low for Michel's ankles, but their swords clanged as he was blocked. He withdrew and came again, only to be blocked once more. Every time he tried, he was blocked or parried.

"Your sword abounds with nicks," Michel observed and stated to Gauthier. "That armor is a joke. Silverite plating cobbled together with iron chain mail, neither of which are properly tended. The mail is rusted enough that a butter knife could pierce it."

"It will do," Gauthier insisted. "My blade is a higher tiered metal than your armor, if you notice. A sharp thrust and veridium is like wet paper to silverite."

Michel chose patience and bided his time, letting Gauthier make his move first. He sidestepped to avoid a lunge and swung down with enough force to snap the nicked blade in two. The broken half of spun through the air and planted into the ground a few yards away. Before Gauthier could process what just happened, Michel pulled back and lunged with the speed of a serpent, gliding through the rusty iron mail, penetrating Gauthier's side and perforating a kidney.

Gauthier fell to his knees and coughed as Michel thrust his blade free. "You're a chevalier," he realized. "Those techniques..."

"I am," he replied. "And you are a fraud."

"Indeed I am."

Michel let Gauthier bleed out before addressing the crowd that had formed around him. He couldn't ignore the murmurings of the people. Concerns rising about the consequences of a commoner killing a chevalier. Retorts by those who understood the conversation between them. But everyone made way when an official looking man, probably the town's mayor. Aliju was too small to have a ruling lord.

The mayor looked in shock over the dead body and then stared Michel in his eyes. Gervaise was beside him and not holding back a satisfied smile. "You, you are a chevalier, like him?" the mayor asked.

Michel admitted, "I am no longer counted among their numbers."

"And truly, he is not one either?"

"His title was lost through controversy," Michel explained. "It is my suspicion that Gauthier de Ancel has been making his living by drifting from village to village, having his fill and moving on before he was questioned."

"Thank the Maker," the mayor sighed. Relief that they need not fear punishment by the empress for slaying a nobleman.

"I would know your name."

"Michel," he answered. "Michel de Chevin."

"Well Michel de Chevin, you are welcome in my home for the duration of your visit, as thanks for saving my daughter from that ruffian."

He looked to Gervaise. "She is your daughter?"

"You sound surprised," Gervaise snorted.

He was surprised, that the mayor would allow his young daughter to work in a tavern full of drunken minds and sticky hands. Gervaise was educated and well mannered when she wanted to be. The impressions on her sleeves when she folded her arms and the finesse displayed while working implied that her body was toned and athletic. Could make for a fine bard, if trained properly, he thought.

"I will accept your hospitality with great humility, Ser Mayor," Michel bowed respectfully.

Michel followed Gervaise and her father back to their home. It was the size of five other houses in the village, weathered but warm-feeling. A chimney on the far corner was smoking strongly from a large hearth inside.

Inside, the house felt homey and inviting. The estates of Orlesian nobles always felt pre-decorated and impersonal. Another rule of the Game, playing to images. This was honest and filled with love.

"You look like you've been down many bad roads, Ser Michel," the mayor observed. "Please take full advantage of our bath and we'll give you some fresh clothes. Gervaise, fetch a shirt and breeches from the lower drawer of my dresser. Those should be Ser Michel's fitting size."

"Yes, Papa," she replied and went off.

"I have not yet even been graced with the name of my host," Michel said with a smile.

"It's _Laurence Montell_."

"My sincerest pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mayor Laurence." Michel shook his hand and let himself be guided by an elven housekeeper named Mirielle to the bath room.

The bath was a large stone tub with a small fireplace beside to heat the water. The servant filled the tub from a tap and stoked the fire until the water reached a fitting temperature, then departed.

Michel stripped off the layers of clothing and armor and submerged himself in the hot water, coming up for air with a gasp a moment later. He reached for a bottle of oil and cloth and began scrubbing away the muck and grime until his body was flawless.

When he finished he wiped a depilatory cream over his face and gently scraped off his beard with one of his knives. Without thinking, he began to shave the hair off of his body. Among many in the nobility, most types of body hair were considered unclean, and because those on Michel's chest, arms, and legs grew fast and thick, he trained himself to remove it as part of his regular cleaning rituals.

The hair on his head was now long enough to reach down to his shoulders, but he was unable to trim that himself without looking uneven and grotesque. He would leave that as it was after pushing it back to clear his field of vision.

Before leaving the tub, Michel stuck a new cloth into his mouth and wiped his teeth clean. At the door, he spotted a tunic, coat, and brown slacks folded on the floor. He dried, dressed, and made his way out from the bath.

"Maker's breath," Laurence laughed at the sight of Michel looking like he was a new man. "Have a seat. Mirielle, bring supper."

"I greatly appreciate everything," Michel felt the need to thank his host again. The elf, Mirielle, brought in a tray of freshly baked buns and bowls of stew made from game caught in the woods with vegetables from a garden outside.

Michel smelled the bun before breaking it open and taking a bite. The next bite he dipped into the stew first. "Delicious," he uttered.

"Glad you like it," Gervaise smirked. "I caught the beast myself."

"I don't recognize the taste."

"It's Halla, one of those white deer the Dalish elves herd," she said. "They're common in the Dales and sometimes wander out."

"Is that so?" Michel didn't care that he was eating it, but saw a sour look pass Mirielle's face. To the Dalish, Halla were beautiful, sacred creatures. Vallaslin markings on her face established her as one, at least in the past.

Noticing the table had six seats - a place for himself, the mayor, his wife, Gervaise, the maid who was likely considered part of the family, and another - Michel said, "You have more family?" A question that sapped the life from the room.

Laurence's head sank and Gervaise looked away.

"My son, _Cyril_," he frowned. "He was... taken away."

"By whom?"

"A pack of filthy bandits," Gervaise grunted.

"They're deserters from the war. A dozen of them," Laurence explained. "Call themselves the _'Freemen of the Dales'_. They raided our village five months ago and stole everything they could carry. Including my son, so that I would not report their presence in the area."

"He's only ten," Gervaise added. "I tracked them to their hideout. It's an old ruin south of here. Animal paths lead right to it."

"Do they come from Celene's men, or Gaspard's?"

"What does it matter?" Gervaise snapped. "This war does no one any good. Whoever's ass is sitting on the throne in the end means nothing to the commoners. We will always be held with the same regard: lesser beings that exist only to pay taxes and plow fields."

"I apologize," Michel said.

"Perhaps a change of tone?" the mayor proposed. "Tell me of your travels, Ser Michel."

"I am searching for someone."

"A lover?" Laurence joked. "I was just about to offer you Gervaise's hand too."

"Papa!" she squealed, blushing slightly.

"I tease, dearest daughter," he laughed warmly. "No man will ever be good enough for you."

"It is not an affair of the heart, I am afraid," Michel replied. "In my journeys I came across a powerful demon of desire. It calls itself 'Imshael'. I have devoted my life to hunting and slaying it."

"Dangerous game," Laurence scratched his chin. "From all I know of demons and their practices, they seldom name themselves. Desire demons are also quite comely as well if rumors are true." He laughed, cupping his hands in the air underneath his chest. Gervaise palmed her face in embarrassment.

"This one appears to be an old man, unless he has possessed someone."

"We haven't seen any spirits or demons around here," Gervaise said. "But we have heard legends of a seer who lives in the _Nahashin Marshes _outside of _Val Foret_. They claim she can talk to spirits. Maybe she could help you find your desire demon?"

Michel quieted down and considered her words. There were some among the Circle of Magi who possessed such abilities. Mediums that negotiated with peaceful spirits, in lieu of demons in order to remain on the acceptable side of Chantry law.

The mage living in the marshes was probably not of the Circle. Last Michel had heard of them, they had fled Andoral's Reach and ventured into Ferelden to seek sanctuary from the monarchy. This would be an apostate, someone who had escaped years ago and was cunning enough to evade the Templars, or who had never been admitted.

He was also hesitant of seeking a mage's aid. Potentially, he could be walking into the den of a demon-possessed maleficar, or someone who would demand a price Michel would be hesitant to pay.

But this was the best lead he had in months. Val Foret was two weeks away by carriage if he crossed through the Heartlands instead of going around _Lake Celestine_.

"Perhaps she could," he finally said.

The rest of the meal was filled with idle conversation about the state of affairs in Orlais. The mayor was very opinionated and expressed sympathy for the elves of Halamshiral to Michel's surprise. Rare indeed for a human in a position of leadership to openly endorse equality for the elves and condemn the oppression they suffered.

That night, Michel could hardly sleep. After a few hours, he was restless. The chevalier sat in bed, polishing his armor and preparing it for use. A few nicks and dents decorated the breastplate, but nothing exploitable. His red steel longsword had an uncertain lifespan. It had been his weapon of choice in all battles over the months and the hilt was coming loose. With enough pressure, he could feel the tang move inside of the grip. It would hold, for now.

He donned the chain mail under the coat Laurence had gifted to him and fitted the straps of his cuirass and shoulder pads around his body before fastening his guards.

Michel crept through the house as quietly as he could and left out the front door. "Where are you going?" Gervaise said, startling Michel almost enough to draw on her. "Oh, it's you," he said.

Gervaise was sitting on a step outside, enjoying the night air. "I asked you a question."

"I'm leaving," was all he said. "Where I shall go and what I shall do is certainly not your business to know."

"You're right," she said. "Go on."

"Thank you," he bowed.

"Wait," Gervaise stopped him.

"What is it?"

"You wanted to know whose side the deserters were from," she replied. "The people who raided our town were wearing violet painted armor with a gold lion's head embossed on the front."

"You're planning on trying to rescue your brother, aren't you?" Michel guessed.

"What I shall do is certainly not your business to know," she bit back with his words.

"Those men are dangerous," he said, "You are talented, I will give you that. But you've never tasted real battle. Never felt the vibrations of horses' steps behind the roaring cries of soldiers clashing their steel. Never smelled the coppery odor of blood in the air. Never saw the ground soaked red by butchered and burned bodies strewn throughout. Never killed a man and felt him die in your arms. And every person slain weakens the veil around, allowing spirits and demons to pour through and possess corpses, reanimating them into feral monsters that kill indiscriminately.

"Unless you have tasted such combat and lived to tell the tale, I suggest remaining exactly where you are and letting go of your foolish dream. Pursue your own life and use those skills for something useful. And Maker willing, your brother will be returned to you."

Gervaise didn't blink, stunned by the horrific picture that Ser Michel had painted for her. He was off without another word.

Violet was the color of Celene's supporters: they deserted from her army. Rumors he heard of the war said that there were numerous desertions from both sides, but knowing which he would be facing was important. The majority of the Chevaliers sided with Gaspard in the conflict. Deserters from his ranks would be considerably more dangerous than a common soldier.

His mind was made up, and Michel knew better than to tell the mayor and his family that he was going to rescue the boy. Laurence would only panic and try to stop him, fearing Cyril's safety. Gervaise would insist on accompanying him. But the Freemen knew not of Michel or his connection to the family. They would have no inkling to use the boy as leverage against him, especially if he could convince them to let him inside of their hideout willingly. A dozen soldiers were a challenge to fight alone, but honestly, he had faced greater obstacles in the past.

It wasn't hard to find the animal paths Gervaise spoke of. He followed them quietly through the forests as the midnight moon loomed overhead, dimly illuminating the world below. Michel never dropped his guard. Even though all was quiet, the forests of the Dales could come alive in the night. And besides the sylvans there were bears, wolves, and giants. Michel had fought a giant once, in his younger years. It was tall as a two story house and brought its full weight down on any foolish enough to draw close. The best strategy against it was to flank and strike the back of the knees to bring it down, and then impale the head.

That would not be an easy feat to accomplish alone.

The Freemen would be awake as well if they were worth their weight in the army. A good soldier was always prepared to respond to an attack. Hence the chevalier's ploy: they would not know he was attacking until it was too late. Ser Michel de Chevin was a known fugitive to the army. Deserters would see him as one of them, a man looking to survive, with a very useful set of skills. By the time they registered him as a threat, he could have a few of them dead on the ground.

"Maker give me strength," Michel said as he neared the Freemen's hideout. Remnants of an old outpost claimed by the forests centuries ago. The architecture was elven, from days when the People controlled the Dales. Forts such as these were used to screen any human merchant or traveler who passed in. Even when there was peace, tensions still lingered over the refusal to allow a Chantry to be built, and the elven leaders feared missionaries sneaking through to spread word of the Maker to them while they tried desperately to reconstitute the worship of lost pagan gods from the grand age of Elvenhan. But when Templars marched through on Divine Renata's word, these forts proved unable to hold them back.

From the look of it, a trebuchet had been this posting's downfall. A jury-rigged repair to the roof using scrap wood and canvas had been made by the Freemen. It would keep the rain out but not the cold. The fires coming from the chimneys supported that notion.

Two men were posted outside. A lone guard in front of a large double-door, and a watcher on the tower armed with a bow. The fact that the watcher had not yet detected Michel's presence hinted that his skill was lacking. Probably a new recruit who decided serving the Empress was more than he could handle. If Michel were fortunate, everyone inside would be just as green. But he laughed to himself at the idea, knowing that sort of luck rarely blessed him.

Michel stepped into view and held up his arms to prove he was not hostile. "Hold!" the guard loudly shouted. "Who are you? We've got an arrow trained on your heart right now, so don't get any ideas."

The chevalier peeked up and saw the watcher still fumbling over his bow. "Clearly not," he replied with dry sarcasm. "I'm no threat to you, friend."

"Really? Then tell me, '_friend_', what's your business?"

"I am here to speak with your leader about joining your group."

"What's your name?"

"Michel de Chevin. I have been on the run for months and heard from more of your Freemen that this outpost would have a place for me." That bluff was a gamble. He wasn't even sure there were any others going by the name Freemen, but he needed an excuse for knowing their location.

"Hmm, relinquish your weapons and I'll take you in to see _Casimir_."

Not a loss, Michel thought. When they came to trust him, his weapon would be returned. He untied his red steel sword from his belt and handed it over with his knife. The guard knocked twice on the double doors and a moment later they opened up. "Come," the guard said to usher Michel inside. Bedrolls were strewn about and everywhere was a mess. The man he assumed was Casimir was set in an ornate chair beside the hearth and Cyril was standing with him, like a steward. It was easy for Michel to guess that the Freemen had broken his spirit to keep him from escaping.

"What is this?" Casimir asked. The Freemen boss was a middle aged man with deep dimples and pocked skin. His short black hair was curled. A thick mustache craned around his lip and fell to his jaw line. Adorning his figure was service issue red steel armor painted violet. Heavier and more protective plate than his men. Befitting of a captain in Celene's army.

"This guy wants to join us. Handed over his weapon and claims he's a chevalier named Michel de Chevin, sent by some of the other Freemen."

Casimir studied Michel's face for any sign of deception. Years serving behind a mask had done nothing for his poker face, but he was calm enough not to betray his ulterior motives. "Bind him," Casimir said.

"What?" Michel asked as two men restrained his arms.

"You're worth more as our prisoner, Ser Michel," Casimir said. "The Empress will pay a high price for you. Could be useful if we're ever in a hard spot."

"And you're a fool if you ever believe Empress Celene will negotiate with deserters for anything," he countered. "You know what happened at Halamshiral the same as I. That is the reward for defying the Empress as we have. My skills are yours if you allow me to join you. I am unmatched even among the Chevaliers. I defeated Gaspard de Chalons in single combat, despite being hexed."

"You may have a point. But why would our leader send a man of such renowned skill to this pissant station? We're not yet even properly established."

"He thought you need a subordinate who knew what he was doing," Michel claimed. "Your guard was half asleep when I approached. Your watcher didn't even see me at all. If I wanted to, I could have stormed your hold and killed half of your men by this moment. I'm here to whip them into shape."

"A fair point," Casimir conceded. "But one last question: what is our leader's name?"

Michel sighed and heaved his weight into the man binding him from the left and sent him crashing to the ground. With a hand free, he punched the other soldier holding him in the nose and drew his sword from its sheath. A cheap iron blade, rusted and full of nicks, crudely sharpened. But it was enough to kill the guard holding his red steel sword and reclaim it. Their uniform armor was a light cuirass with pauldrons and chain, not unlike Michel's own. Only the chest and shoulders were well protected. Mail on the arms and torso could be penetrated if stabbed with enough force. And little at all protected the legs.

Michel was then surrounded by four men, including the two he had released himself from. One was missing his sword, now lodged in the gut of the guard who took Michel's blade. Out of twelve, one was dead, eleven remained. The plan was not going as smoothly as he might have hoped, but it might not be completely doomed to fail.

A Freeman came from the left and Michel blocked, grabbed, and used him as a human shield against another oncoming attack. While the soldier was yanking his weapon free, Michel swung high in a wide arc, cleanly taking his head.

Three were down, nine more to go.

Another man came forth and brought down all of his weight in a vertical cut. Michel sidestepped and swiped his leg, cutting deep into the thigh and severing a femoral artery. He would bleed out a minute later.

The next two soldiers were more skilled and dueled with the chevalier, creating an orchestra of metallic clangs, ending when Michel tripped one, cut his throat with a low arc, and relieved him of his weapon - a steel sword that was actually worth a damn. He crossed the blades to absorb an incoming blow and parried upward. Michel kicked the attacker in the gut and knocked him off of his feet. His death soon followed.

That was six.

Michel darted across the room and climbed onto a table using a chair as a step. Anyone attacking him while he held the higher ground was asking for a beheading. They were wary as they came for him. One of them tried jumping onto another table and leaping over to his, but only succeeded in being caught just as he landed and thrown face first into the hearth. The soldier screamed in agony as hot cinders of the fire melted through his burned skin, then was silenced by a smooth cut across the throat from Casimir's sword.

Jumping from the table with as much strength as his legs could muster, Michel somersaulted over a trio soldiers and landed in their rear flank. He landed hard on his legs and winced from the pain. Chain mail and plate added weight, making acrobatics very difficult. But he recovered quickly and stabbed one through the lower back and thrust his sword free in time to catch the attack of another. Michel shoved him into the third man and ran them both through at once.

"Nine," Michel counted to himself. The watcher up above made ten but he was no threat. Only Casimir and one more man remained in the room. Cyril was cowering in the corner, scared for his life.

The last Freeman soldier hesitated as he gawked at the bodies of his comrades strewn about the room, killed by a lone attacker. He didn't see Casimir place a comforting hand on his shoulder. And he certainly didn't expect Casimir to run a sword across his stomach as a reward for cowardice. His guts spilled out onto the floor and he made a sickly gurgle as he went down and died. "Very impressive, Ser Michel."

Casimir carried himself with more experience than his men. His red steel armor had a few dings and scratches, but nothing Michel could exploit in combat. It also covered more of his body than the other men's armor, but a straight lunge with enough force could pierce it. The sword in his hand was a higher tier, silverite, ornate, and without a scratch on it. It was probably stolen from someone, and before today had never been used.

Getting his second wind while Casimir spoke, Michel decided to test his foe's ability and took the initiative by making a first move. He lunged and aimed high, a strike that Casimir easily caught. Michel withdrew and swung horizontally. When the blades locked Michel parried and lunged in a riposte slow enough for Casimir to dodge and counter, which was blocked.

The chevalier got what he wanted, a chance to gauge Casimir's speed and reaction time. The Freeman captain was skilled. If the Maker had chosen a different fate and he been born a noble, or lucky enough to befriend the right people, he would have been a decent chevalier.

Casimir struck this time, forcing a deadlock with Michel and attempting to sweep him out from under his feet. Michel escaped by parrying, strafing to the side, and lunging, which rendered a cut on Casimir's left arm, landing precisely between the plates of his armor. A trail of blood followed the blade from the wound with the vacuum.

Michel rushed Casimir and lashed out at him using a barrage of fast blows from random angles. Many were dodged and blocked; a paltry few scraped his chestplate.

"If your men had rushed me all at once, I would have been unable to resist in close quarters," grunted Michel as he blocked a hit from Casimir.

"I agree, but where is the honor in that?" he asked, dodging a vertical cut by sidestepping. "Once you broke free and armed yourself, you deserved the chance to die with dignity like a man."

"Honor does not preclude tactics, and glory is not won through foolishness," Michel said. "The Chevalier's Code."

A look of confusion passed Casimir's face. "I would call such code hypocrisy," he remarked. "It means that you only adhere to your sworn values when it's convenient. That victory is what matters most of all."

Michel paused and looked at Casimir quizzically. "And why would a man who resorts to banditry and the taking of hostages treat the code he thinks excuses dirty tactics with such scornful contempt?"

Casimir's observation was far more cynical than the way Michel himself looked at it. But he could not deny the point he made. Many a chevalier - the likes of Gauthier - treated the code as such to justify their actions. A tenet meant to allow for pragmatism twisted and perverted.

"Orlesian nobles take hostages and rob commoners as a pass time," Casimir pointed out. "My men harmed no one in the village and I have not abused my charge. We took only what we need to survive while we wait for further orders. My leader's wishes shall be carried out justly. _The Elder One _has promised us the Dales to rule if we should claim it from Celene and Gaspard. And we shall govern our new nation with a fair but firm hand!"

"The Elder One?" Michel asked. "Is his name Imshael, by chance? A desire demon?" He had to ask. Imshael was released in the Dales and it was quite possible that he never left. The Freemen of the Dales formed shortly after and have been establishing a powerbase ever since. Whether they truly wished to rule justly or Casimir was only being told what he wanted to hear by his 'Elder One' was irrelevant.

Casimir lunged and struck for Michel's torso. Realizing that the Freemen captain was studying his technique the whole time he was fighting the subordinates, Michel backed away and raised his sword in a defensive position. Casimir swung from the left, then right, and above. Michel blocked each blow with motions that did not take the blade far from his center, and caught the last. Casimir parried and slashed Michel's torso, cutting through the chain mail and leaving a deep laceration.

"I guess we've one for one," Michel said.

Michel swung a wide diagonal arc that Casimir evaded by stepping back. Michel rushed and rammed into the Freeman captain with his weight and sent him crashing back into a table. He swung quickly and carved a deep scratch in Casimir's chestplate. Michel withdrew and then lunged for a final strike, attempting to exploit the opening he created, but missed when Casimir strafed to the side. He counterattacked and they deadlocked. Casimir parried Michel but the chevalier recovered in time to catch his riposte.

The metals rang out loudly with the force of the impact and when they broke apart Michel felt his sword's tang rattle inside the hilt. Closer inspection revealed a large crack formed in the grip coming down from the cross guard. Another strike like that and the hilt might break apart.

Casimir pressed again, forcing Michel on the defensive. He blocked as many strikes as he could, afraid every strike would be his weapon's last. Casimir knew this and was trying to quicken it. The option of dropping the blade and taking one of the other swords lying around the room was unlikely to succeed without Michel being stabbed in the back. The Freemen captain was not allowing any time for more than defense moves. He avoided deadlocks and connections long enough to be parried.

Michel weighed his situation against everything taught to him in the Academie and let Casimir's next attack come through.

Casimir mistakenly believed that Michel was giving up and accepting death, but it was a feint, realized too late. The chevalier ducked down to avoid the attack - which succeeded only in trimming a few strands of golden hair from his head - and dove. He rolled on the ground and spun as he rose to generate centrifugal force and swung low, slashing Casimir's ankle with all of his strength. Michel's aim was perfect and the blade landed behind the metal of Casimir's greaves, cutting deep and severing his achilles tendon.

"Serpent Bites the Heel," Michel whispered to himself.

Casimir fumbled against the pain, trying desperately to maintain his balance. He swung out weakly enough for Michel to catch his sword by the blade. With a yank, that perfect silverite sword slipped from Casimir's grip and was claimed by a new master. The tip was pointed at the Freemen captain's throat less than a second later.

"Most impressive, Ser Michel," Casimir praised. "You live up to the reputation of the Chevaliers' prowess."

"You're no slouch either," he admitted. "This was the most difficult fight I've had in a long time. You would have made a magnificent chevalier in a different life."

"You have defeated me fairly; I would grant you a boon. You asked me if The Elder One was a demon named Imshael, yes?"

"Yes," Michel replied.

"He is not. I know not the Elder One's true name but I can swear on Andraste's sacred pyre that he is no spirit of the Fade."

"I accept your answer," Michel said as he sank the silverite blade into Casimir's neck and killed him.

Michel liberated the sheath from Casimir's belt and wiped the blade clean before resting it in its home. Looking over, he saw Cyril, still cowering in the corner. Michel approached, slowly, and knelt down, offering a hand. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "I'm here to take you home to your family. To Laurence, your mother, and Gervaise."

"Ger...Gervaise?" the young boy muttered. He looked in at Michel and saw a warm smile behind a face and armor covered in blood. He nodded and got up to his feet. "T-Take me home.., please."

Michel guided the boy out the front door and an arrow whizzed past his head. "Maker save me, I forgot the watcher!" He ushered Cyril back toward the outpost and saw the watcher training another shot. But before he could release an arrow planted into his neck. He dropped his bow and pulled the arrow out. Blood spurted and he dropped dead.

"Gervaise!" Michel yelled in surprise. She was wearing roguish leathers and had her bow out. Cyril's eyes gleamed as he saw his elder sister and before she knew it he planted himself in her embrace.

"Cyril..." She hugged him tightly. "Thank you, Ser Michel. And the Maker for sending you to us."

"Thank you for that last minute rescue. It would have been a nuisance to scale that tower and kill the watcher. I made the mistake of forgetting about him in the fervor of combat."

"I saw you going the opposite way from the road and figured out that you were going to rescue Cyril. I got my bow and armor and followed the path. But by the time I got here where you were already fighting their leader. You two were moving around so fast I didn't know who I would hit so I decided to hang back and wait."

"You made the right decision," Michel said. "As long as Casimir didn't know why I was there he would not think to use Cyril as a shield."

"Let's go home," Gervaise smiled, staring down at her brother.

The walk back to Aliju Village was slow and peaceful. Dawn had come by the time they returned and made their way through the town, toward the mayor's home. Laurence and his wife waited in the front with Mirielle by the door. They looked on with awe at the sight of Michel returning their Gervaise and Cyril.

"Papa, Mama!" Cyril cried out as he sprinted to them.

"Ser Michel..." Laurence could barely compose words as he squeezed his boy softly. "I owe you a debt of gratitude that I could never hope to repay. My son is safe and the Freemen are dead, I assume?"

"All of them at the post, yes. But there are more in the Dales," was his answer. "They might come back. Get word to the capitol and have them send a regiment of soldiers to protect the area."

"I will do this, soon as I am able," Laurence promised. "And you, you are always welcome in my home."

"I will rest the day and be off tomorrow morning," was all Michel was willing to take. If a regiment were going to be deployed to Aliju, he had to be as far away as possible when they arrived.

For the next twenty four hours Ser Michel did nothing but sleep and eat, rejuvenating himself. In the short moments he was awake with naught to do, he reflected on his battle with Casimir and things he said. The criticism of the Chevalier Code could not be shaken from his mind. A notion that the values he had sworn to uphold for all his life were only a mask to hide and validate the corruption of Orlais' finest knights was unsettling to say the least. No honor, only more lies and more games. Michel honestly did not know what to do about that.

But whatever the truth actually was, Michel knew what was in his heart; what he believed. That was enough, for now.

In the following morning, Michel was intent on leaving without even being noticed. Difficult goodbyes were better avoided. But as he actually expected, Gervaise was waiting to see him off.

"You look smug," he said noticing her grin.

"Off to the marshes now, I assume?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Want some company?" she offered. "I'm a pretty good shot and I can promise that I will try very hard not to hit you on accident."

Michel couldn't stifle a chuckle as he shook his head. "It's a very tempting offer, but where I'm going and what I'm facing is dangerous. I would not spoil your father's goodwill by placing his daughter's life in danger only a moment after saving his son's."

She understood, sadly. And to Michel's surprise, she hugged him tight before saying goodbye.

With a last smile to Gervaise from the distance, Michel departed on the road north, back to Lydes. From there he would pass through Verchiel and charter a wagon to take him the rest of the way to Val Foret.

Aliju Village was not the end of his journey as he had hoped, but Ser Michel de Chevin found something he believed was more precious. Resolve.

Fresh air filled his lungs and a crisp breeze had him moving at a fast pace, then running up the road. Renewed by his experiences, he once again set forth with his head held high, braving the honorable path, towards his next trial.


End file.
